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mouth suctioning open and closed, open and closed.
    â€œHe was very beautiful,” she finally whispered. “When they pulled him out of the oven, his face was the most exquisite red. Like a ripe, ripe cherry.”
    Â 
    Knowing how it happened changed things. Penny had always imagined handsome, melancholy Larry walking around the apartment, turning gas jets on. Settling into that club chair in the living room. Or maybe settling in bed and slowly drifting from earth’s fine tethers.
    She wondered how she could ever use the oven now, or even look at it.
    It had to be the same one. That Magic Chef, which looked like the one from childhood, white porcelain and cast iron. Not like those new slabs, buttercup or mint green.
    The last tenant, Mr. Flant told her later, smelled gas all the time.
    â€œShe said it gave her headaches,” he said. “Then one night she came here, her face white as snow. She said she’d just seen Saint Agatha in the kitchen, with her bloody breasts.”
    â€œI . . . I don’t see anything like that,” Penny said.
    Â 
    Back in the bungalow, trying to sleep, she began picturing herself the week before. How she’d left that oven door open, her fine, rain-slicked dress draped over the rack. The truth was, she’d forgotten about it, only returning for it hours later.
    Walking to the closet now, she slid the dress from its hanger, pressing it to her face. But she couldn’t smell anything.
    Â 
    Mr. D. still had not returned her calls. The bank had charged her for the bounced check, so she’d have to return the hat she’d bought, and rent was due again in two days.
    When all the other crew members were making their way to the commissary for lunch, Penny slipped away and splurged on cab fare to the studio.
    As she opened the door to his outer office, the receptionist was already on her feet and walking purposefully toward Penny.
    â€œMiss,” she said, nearly blocking Penny, “you’re going to have to leave. Mac shouldn’t have let you in downstairs.”
    â€œWhy not? I’ve been here dozens of—”
    â€œYou’re not on the appointment list, and that’s our system now, miss.”
    â€œDoes he have an appointment list now for that squeaking starlet sofa in there?” Penny asked, jerking her arm and pointing at the leather-padded door. A man with a thin mustache and a woman in a feathered hat looked up from their magazines.
    The receptionist was already on the phone. “Mac, I need you . . . Yes, that one.”
    â€œIf he thinks he can just toss me out like street trade,” she said, marching over and thumping on Mr. D.’s door, “he’ll be very, very sorry.”
    Her knuckles made no noise in the soft leather. Nor did her fist.
    â€œMiss,” someone said. It was the security guard striding toward her.
    â€œI’m allowed to be here,” she insisted, her voice tight and high. “I did my time. I earned the right.”
    But the guard had his hand on her arm.
    Desperate, she looked down at the man and the woman waiting. Maybe she thought they would help. But why would they?
    The woman pretended to be absorbed in her
Cinestar
magazine.
    But the man smiled at her, hair oil gleaming. And winked.
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    The next morning she woke bleary but determined. She would forget about Mr. D. She didn’t need his money. After all, she had a job, a good one.
    It was hot on the lot that afternoon, and none of the makeup crew could keep the dust off the faces. There were so many lines and creases on every face—you never think about it until you’re trying to make everything smooth.
    â€œPenny,” Gordon, the makeup supervisor, said. She had the feeling he’d been watching her for several moments as she pressed the powder into the actor’s face, holding it still.
    â€œIt’s so dusty,” she said, “so it’s taking a while.”
    He waited